Tropic of Death (6 page)

It was a workable theory but Rita had her doubts.

What worried her was Steinberg’s suggestion that the protesters were right about damage to the environment. In that context the killing of Rachel, the local leader of the protest movement, could have a specific motive. If this was the case, the location of the decapitated head was more than a taunt, it was meant to send some sort of message. It also implied that the base itself was central to the case. Of course, it was mere conjecture at this stage. Rita didn’t have enough information to justify a suspicion either way.

As a profiler she needed to examine the crime scenes and start doing her own background work, but she’d already decided that Steinberg would be among those she would approach.

Another would be Rachel’s boyfriend, Freddy Hopper. Members of the protest movement had told Detective Sergeant Jarrett that Rachel had a secret pipeline to information inside the base, but they had no idea who or what this conduit was, and she’d refused to enlighten them. Maybe Freddy knew. As Rita reread the transcript of his police interview she began to suspect, like Jarrett, that Rachel’s lover was hiding something.

When the pilot announced they’d be landing in twenty minutes, Rita packed away the laptop and looked out the window as the airliner headed out over the South Pacific Ocean in a wide arc, altering course to make the approach to Whitley airport. Far below, hundreds of islands, reefs and islets dotted the tropical blue water, its glistening surface creased here and there by the wakes of yachts and powerboats.

As the jet descended, the ragged line of the coast came back into view, indented with bays and rocky headlands, creeks and mangrove swamps. Up ahead the residential sprawl of the town could be seen, dissected by the lazy curves of a river. Its weaving course ended in a broad estuary that spilled into the sea beyond the breakwaters of a man-made harbour where half a dozen cargo ships were docked. The place had the look of a busy port. Its flat storage area was studded with tanks, silos, fuel depots and sugar sheds, linked by a crisscross of rail yards crawling with freight trains.

The loading pier of a coal terminal jutted out into the water.

There was another industrial cluster around the airport, and past the urban limits, where the cane plantations gave way to sand dunes, rose the concrete shapes of the Whitley Sands research base.

Further along the coast, covering more than four thousand square kilometres of rugged hinterland, stretched the Whitley Bay Military Reserve. Among a variety of defence functions, it was used for infantry training, artillery testing and joint exercises by the armed forces of Australia, the United States and Pacific Ocean allies. Other activities were cloaked in official secrecy. On a distant plateau of the rainforest Rita could see weird white spheres, like giant golf balls. They housed American satellite tracking installations, more reminders that the region had elements of a dark presence linked to the tactics of international warfare. But as if to dispel the impression that the town was anything other than hospitable, directly below there were glimpses of a marina, an amusement park, a foreshore lined with palm trees and a beach scattered with the oiled bodies of sunbathers, while out to sea windsurfers skimmed the waves.

The plane landed with a thud and came to a halt on an apron of tarmac beside a tin-roofed terminal. When the passenger door opened a gust of heat came through. As Rita walked down the steps the ferocity of the sun seemed to swallow her like the blast from a furnace. The humidity, too, was intense, making her realise she was overdressed. And that was only the first adjustment she had to make. After the wintry setting of her departure thousands of kilometres south of here, she now had to switch her mental and cultural geography as well. She’d never been this far north in Australia before, and she’d already been warned to expect a more casual, more cavalier approach to everything. She was deep in the tropics now, and somehow it felt like foreign territory.

And yet she felt a strange familiarity, like a flashback. It brought an unwelcome reminder of early childhood in the tropics - a cool, spacious home in Jakarta, cane furniture on the landing, rotating blades of overhead fans, a pet lizard on the ceiling and a father who abandoned her in his obsession for a Javanese girl. It came back with painful clarity: her mother and sister in tears and the tightness in her chest, like a dead hand gripping her heart. With a shudder, she pushed the memories aside and went in search of her luggage, then a taxi.

The four-star Whitsunday Hotel, built on a bluff above a strip of beach, had the look of a smart holiday venue aimed at young professionals. Reception was in an air-conditioned glass atrium with ferns, a fish pond and an indoor waterfall. An activities desk catered for everything from sailing to scuba-diving on the reef and a range of adrenalin sports. To one side was a piano bar where men in tropical shirts drank cocktails decorated with little umbrellas.

On the other was a dance floor with a poster advertising a singles night. The man at reception gave Rita a smile of approval. She was clearly part of the target market.

A porter showed the way to her room on the fifth floor, wheeling her suitcase, cabin bag and laptop case on a trolley.

Once alone in her room, she opened the sliding glass door to the balcony and stepped out to take in her surroundings.

As she leant on the railing the brilliance of the colours made her squint - the crimson riot of bougainvillea in the hotel gardens, the opalescent blue of the water, sparks of sunlight glinting on the waves. A flotilla of yachts bobbed at their moorings and out in the deep channel a US aircraft carrier rode at anchor, its huge grey bulk the one anomaly in the vivid light.

After freshening up in the shower she went through her luggage and decided the most sensible option was smart casual, pulling on a cool linen top, denim skirt and deck shoes. Then she phoned Jarrett.

‘I’ve checked into the hotel,’ she told him. ‘I can drop in on you now if you’re clear.’

‘Stay where you are, I’ll come to you,’ he said. ‘It gives me the excuse for an afternoon beer in the shade.’

‘Where will we meet?’

‘Grab a table in the rotunda by the pool. I’ll see you in ten minutes.’

The rotunda, as Jarrett called it, was a bamboo shelter with whitewashed pillars and wrought-iron furniture. It stood on the edge of the bluff beyond the hotel swimming pool. Rita had it to herself as she sipped a lime and soda, observing some of her fellow guests sunbathing. Half a dozen women, mostly young, mostly slim, glistened like bronze nymphs in deckchairs. Brief bikinis were
de rigueur
, along with designer shades, designer bags and glossy nail polish. A waiter fetched the women iced drinks as they sprawled indolently or flipped through the pages of magazines, waiting for time to pass, conserving their energy for the night.

A man was heading towards her across the slope of lawn. She assumed it was Jarrett. He was weaving through the display of female torsos as sure-footed as a mountain goat, a chilled bottle of Mexican lager in his hand and a testosterone grin on his face.

In his tropical shirt, canvas shorts and sunglasses he looked right at home, less like a cop than a poolside Lothario. Rita could see at a glance he had more than police work on his mind.

‘G’day, Van Hassel,’ he said, extending his free hand as he sat down.

She reached over and shook it. His grip was firm. ‘Hi, Jarrett.

Nice to meet you at last.’

‘You too.’

As he made himself comfortable he looked her up and down, a casual appraisal, neither blatant nor furtive, the instinctive habit of a man at ease with women. It was obvious why. Jarrett was wickedly handsome with an equally wicked smile, the sort of man who got around women’s defences effortlessly. Little wonder Erin had jumped on him.

‘The camera wasn’t lying,’ he said.

‘Ah.’ Rita nodded. ‘You’ve been browsing.’

‘Amazing what you find on the web. My favourite shot was the purple bikini.’

‘That’s an episode I’d rather forget. My ex sold private photos to a tabloid.’

‘Unwelcome exposure, huh? Your ex is obviously a louse.’

‘He is.’

‘Any man who betrays a woman’s trust deserves to be hung out to dry.’

‘He does and he was. But that’s history, and so is he.’

‘Okay, I won’t ask.’

‘Good.’ She put down her drink. ‘But you’re not getting off so lightly.’

‘Oh. Erin.’

‘She asked me to say hello, by the way.’

‘Huh. Returning the favour. I copped an earful over that.’

‘Can you blame her?’

‘I didn’t mean to give anything away,’ said Jarrett. ‘I thought I was just being sociable.’

‘Think again. It doesn’t take much to set off a wave of gossip and her marriage is under enough pressure already. She doesn’t need any additional stress.’

He looked suitably sheepish. ‘Point taken.’

But Rita wasn’t finished yet. ‘So, tell me. Your relationship with her - how do you see it? I’m asking as her friend.’

‘Well, for a start, it’s not a
relationship
. It’s a bit of fun on the side. That goes for both of us, and our paths haven’t crossed since September last year. I get the impression I’m occasional light relief from heavy-going at home.’

‘And you’re happy to do the relieving.’

‘You disapprove?’

‘No. As long as Erin doesn’t get hurt. She’s not as tough as she thinks.’

‘That goes for all of us,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘But you’ve got my word. She won’t get hurt by me. Now, what about you?

Do we have an understanding? If I give you the full picture of where I’m at, can I trust it won’t go any further?’

‘I can keep a secret.’

‘Yeah, I guess you can.’ Jarrett took a swig of beer and sighed, a serious expression replacing the smile. ‘Let’s talk shop. First of all, thanks for agreeing to come up here.’

‘No problem.’

‘I wish I could say the same.’ He frowned. ‘But the truth is, I’m feeling more out on a limb every day. I’m being pressured in a way I haven’t been before. The murders have made people panicky, especially what happened to Rachel Macarthur. It’s changed the town. There’s a bad vibe and at times I’m on the receiving end of it.’

‘Can you be a bit more specific?’

‘Let me put it this way,’ said Jarrett, cradling his bottle. ‘I’m an easygoing sort of bloke. I like where I am at the moment.

I put life before ambition. I run an investigation branch with a handful of detective constables in a beach resort, where uniform does the donkey work and my station commander is a master of inertia. By the way, that’s also between you and me.’

‘Obviously.’

‘That said, I still pride myself on being professional, even if our biggest cases are usually car theft, shoplifting and the occasional flasher. There’s the odd backpacker making trouble, and I keep my eye on a couple of hoods who’ve moved up from the Gold Coast, but so far they’re behaving themselves. It’s all manageable, straightforward police work, the stats look good on my personnel file and I have a friendly relationship with the local authorities.

Or at least I did have.’

‘A change of mood’s understandable,’ said Rita. ‘Two violent deaths, both inexplicable at the moment, will naturally bring a sense of crisis to a community. And you seem to be doing what’s necessary. I’ve looked at the case files you sent. Very thorough.’

‘Maybe, but I’ve hit a wall. In fact, I hit it the moment the first head rolled up on the sand. I’ve gone through every bit of evidence available, every detail, and it tells me precisely nothing about who’s behind these crimes.’ Jarrett gave a grunt. ‘That’s not what I’m talking about though. There’s something else going on.’

He was more downbeat than Rita expected. It was beginning to worry her.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m here to help with the investigation in whatever way I can, at your request. I’m doing it on the basis that I’m working directly with you. If I do come up with anything you get it first, no one else.’

‘That would be good.’

‘Fine. Then get it off your chest. Tell me exactly what’s bugging you.’

Jarrett put down his bottle and looked out to sea, as if deciding how frank to be with her. ‘I feel remote,’ he said at last. ‘For the first time in my career I get the feeling I’m isolated - professionally, I mean. It’s as if various officials around me are positioning themselves for a shit-storm that’s blowing in and they won’t even lend me an umbrella.’

‘Which officials?’ Rita asked.

‘Town councillors, for a start. They’re wetting themselves over negative publicity. They’ve got a one-track mind: the tourist dollar.

My name’s come up in committee. They’re questioning whether I’m up to the job. I thought these guys were mates of mine.’

Jarrett tilted his head awkwardly. ‘Then there’s the media. The local hacks are jumping up and down for new information and when I don’t have it they get personal about it. This is after the Homicide Squad came and went, leaving more questions but no answers. On top of that I’ve had the regional brass on the phone expecting me to track down the killer with no manpower. It’s like a memo’s gone out announcing I’m available for target practice.’

Rita gave him a sympathetic slap on the shoulder. ‘I hate to say it, mate, but the things you describe are typical social responses.’

‘Maybe I’m not describing them well enough.’

‘You’re facing a barrage of angst - communal, institutional - at a level of intensity you haven’t experienced before. Like the crimes themselves. Such savagery not only scares us, it threatens our sense of humanity. It reminds us we’re only partly civilised - that our species has merely repackaged its instincts. Psychologically, it tells us we’re still wading through a primeval swamp.’

‘Thanks for the reassurance. Do I hear the profiler talking?’

‘Get used to it, Jarrett. That’s what I’ve got to offer - behavioural psychology. That’s what a profiler does, if you haven’t heard.’

‘But you’re also a cop.’

‘You think that makes me a bit schizoid?’ She sipped her drink with a shrug. ‘Like your town, in fact.’